


A Midnight Spell in New Orleans

by SorrowsFlower



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adlock, F/M, Mentions of Sex, Midnight, New Orleans, Piano, Seduction, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-16 03:12:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11245128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SorrowsFlower/pseuds/SorrowsFlower
Summary: Caught in the hour between the uninhibited zeal of the night before and the languid stupor of the morning after, midnight covers the Vieux Carré in a blended, half-drugged lethargy of window lights and morose notes from a weathered street musician playing the saxophone on the corner.It may not be London, but the city has its own heartbeat, and he’s content to enjoy it - and HER - for the short time that he’s allowed."I put a spell on you... because you're mine."





	1. A Midnight Spell In New Orleans

Midnight in New Orleans is a strange thing – a dark, beatific, beaded madam of a creature made of shifting alley shadows and languid secrets, with a voyeuristic streak satisfied by the inebriated frivolity of its revelers and the twisted passions of its carousing children.

 

Caught in the hour between the uninhibited zeal of the night before and the stuporous shame of the morning after, midnight covers the _Vieux Carré_ in a blended, half-drugged lethargy of charmed window lights and morose notes from a weathered street musician playing the saxophone on the corner.

 

Under the dim, flickering light of a streetlamp, Sherlock Holmes takes The Woman’s hand and smiles in amusement. She downs the last of her drink just as they near the hotel.

 

He has to admit, he’s impressed with her alcohol tolerance. He estimates she’s had about as much alcohol as he did during John’s stag night (certainly more than he’s consumed tonight), but she’s not drunk – with her love for control and power, he doesn’t think she’ll let herself be that uncontrolled, even around him, ( _especially_ around him) – though admittedly, the alcohol has had a certain liberating effect on her.

 

The air of rigidly controlled sexuality she maintains constantly loosens as the alcohol makes its way through her system. Her glass is empty and she tosses it carelessly to the side where it breaks in a small, tinkling crash against the filigree ironwork of the next building.

 

She uses his hand for support and with a throaty laugh, leans down to take off her stilettos. She straightens up slowly, and the lack of high heels emphasizes the difference in their height, but she makes up for it by pulling him down to her. Even tipsy, she manages to make sure her breasts brush slowly and sensuously against him, so that he can feel their soft shape pressed against his arm as she leans closer to his ear, crooning softly.

 

_I put a spell on you…_

 

He can feel her warm breath against the shell of his ear, and without warning, she takes his earlobe between her teeth, sending jolts of sensation straight down his spine. Before he can turn his head toward her, she pulls away with a low, purring laugh. She hands him her shoes and lets go of his hand, walking away with a wink.

 

_I put a spell on you…_

 

_‘Cause you’re mine._

 

The hotel lobby is almost deserted when he enters, and he’s not surprised. She’s chosen a quaint little place tucked away in one of the smaller streets, far enough from the French Market and Bourbon Street to avoid the noise, but still near enough to the cathedral and all the main tourist attractions for them to blend in and avoid arousing suspicion.

 

It’s a small place, but then again everything in the Quarter is small compared to London and the bigger cities in the States. Alleyways, historical buildings and homes built on top of each other, like the crypts in their cemeteries, all crammed into this little corner of the Mississippi River.

 

He doesn’t mind, though. In fact, he likes it. The faded wallpaper, the antique furniture, the slightly musty smell of the books on the shelves – it almost feels like 221B. It may not be London, but the city has its own heartbeat, and he’s content to enjoy it for the short time that he’s allowed.

 

The hotel has an old piano sitting against the wall, and he can see her sitting on the worn bench when he walks in. She turns slightly so that he can see her profile. She blinks slowly as he approaches, a bewitching smile gracing her lips.

 

_You better stop the things you do…_

 

Her fingers dance nimbly over the keys, the piano’s delicate notes providing sensually melodic accompaniment to her rich voice. Maybe it’s just the alcohol he’s consumed, but to him, it seems even the notes from the saxophone playing outside follows the music she’s playing, as if she’s a pied piper, luring everything to her. Has she not done the same to him?

 

_I’m not lying_

 

_No, I’m not lying_

 

The only other person in the lobby is the receptionist, an old Cajun woman – devout Catholic, lives in the French Quarter with her granddaughter but was raised in ~~Marigny,~~ no, Metairie, Bible in her left pocket, scapular of Marie Laveau around her neck and gris-gris bag tucked under her blouse indicating her practice of Louisiana voodoo, common enough in this area. The way she looks at the Woman playing at the piano – wistful, motherly – tells him she reminds the old woman of her own daughter, who had probably been a ~~musician~~ , no, a singer.

 

The old woman gives him a meaningful smile and bustles off to lock the door behind him. She retreats discreetly off into a back room but not before giving him a knowing wink.

 

He walks over to the piano and the Woman favors him with a lazy side-long look. She’s a good pianist, untrained, probably self-taught, but the keys rise and fall almost pliantly under her long fingers. He sits beside her on the bench with his back to the piano so that he can watch her face as she plays.

 

She has that maddening little half-smile on her face again, the one that kisses her lips with a secret that he desperately wants her to reveal and conceal at the same time.

 

_I put a spell on you…_

 

_Because you’re mine._

 

She leans closer so that her lips are at his ear and whispers in a low purr the undeniable words, “You’re mine.”

 

Instead of denying them, he hums a low laugh and slides his arm – the one not holding her shoes – around her waist, pulling her closer. Christ, he must really be drunk.

 

_I love you…_

 

_I love you…_

 

_I love you anyhow._

 

She whispers the song into his ear, and it’s almost as if she’s speaking the words, rather than singing them, to him. Except she is The Woman, and the Woman would never deliver such an admission, and it’s only the alcohol in his own system that makes him interpret it as such.

 

Still, who is he to refuse the song that spills from her mouth, when it is something so closely guarded and rarely granted? He leans forward, pressing their lips together so that he might receive her next words into his own mouth.

 

She laughs softly into his mouth before giving into the kiss, and for a moment, the notes from the piano falter as the song is forgotten over the mingling of breath, the slide of her tongue on his, and the taste of alcohol and _her_.

 

The Woman pulls away first, just a fraction, and he can feel her smiling against his mouth as she hums the rest of the song into his lips.

 

_And I don’t care_

 

_If you don’t want me,_

 

_I’m yours right now…_

 

He leans forward for another kiss, but she pulls away with that teasing smile that never fails to frustrate and captivate him at the same time. She resumes her playing, and her rich voice weaves a spell around him, just as midnight weaves its own strange, heavy magic around New Orleans.

 

_I put a spell on you…_

 

_Because you’re mine._

 

 

From my tumblr:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wanted to write an Adlock ficlet set in New Orleans because I love that place, and I think it’s perfect for them :)
> 
> The song is Nina Simone’s “I Put A Spell On You”, but I edited some of the lyrics because not all of them are very Irene-esque.
> 
> Next chapter is just the epilogue.
> 
> As always, please tell me what you think! I love to get feedback :D


	2. Epilogue

The next morning, he wakes to find the space next to his in bed empty, the sheets cool but smelling of her perfume.

 

He dresses quickly and finds her sitting at the breakfast table in the courtyard downstairs, drinking a mimosa and laughing at something the old Cajun woman is saying. The Woman spies him as soon as he steps out onto the courtyard, and he can see something positively evil gleam in her eye as she smiles at him. “Speak of the devil.”

 

The old woman turns to him with a far too knowing look. “Ah, good morning, _monsieur_. You seem to be in a better mood than yesterday. I was just telling _mademoiselle_ , no need for a love spell here.” 

 

He looks from the Woman, who is laughing silently into her mimosa, to the old Cajun lady, who is smirking at him in a very satisfied way. To his utter horror, he feels his face heat up as he realizes what the old lady is talking about.

 

The old lady turns to the Woman and winks, “I thought your young man might need some encouraging, but based on the sounds the old piano was making last night, I’d say my help isn’t needed. Good for you, _cher_.“

 

The Woman smiles sweetly at the old lady and casts him a smug, side-long look. He can feel his face turn even redder, and he opens his mouth to deliver a witty retort, but when his brain comes up blank, he snaps it closed, avoiding the old lady’s eye.

 

“Wasn’t sure the piano was gonna survive it.” The old lady looks at them both with a wise smile. She looks at him with a meaningful stare. “You realize that old girl has been here since 1912? Next time, for your own safety, _cher_ , use the bed.”

 

He’s pretty sure his face can’t get any redder.

 

“Oh, we did.” the Woman assures the old lady.

 

He’s wrong, it can.

 

Both women laugh at the expression on his face, and the old lady pats him on the back. “I’ll leave you two before the poor boy gets a stroke. Enjoy yourselves, _cher_. You know what we say here in New Orleans: _laissez les bons temps rouler!_ ”

 

…

 

…

 

The next time they’re in the French Quarter, little more than a year later, the Woman drags him back to the hotel to point out the piano again.

 

To his utter mortification, he finds it’s no longer functioning. The bench is useless with two broken legs, and there are splinters poking out between the keys.

 

His face flushes a deep red all over again when the Woman points out the little plaque above it that she finds so funny:

 

**“Here lies the broken carcass of a beloved instrument that withstood the test of time, but apparently not the horny British.”**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The destructive piano sex was my idea, the plaque was ElinorX's (she's a genius). Naughty, naughty ;p
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you think!


End file.
